IF YOU think it’s hard for a pretty young woman to pick up men on the L, try being a scruffy, skinny, hung-over man trying to wrangle numbers out of pretty young women. These are the kind of actions that usually get you arrested.

First of all, the L train’s fluoro lighting is atrocious for hiding any blemishes. And I didn’t even bother trying to make doe-eyes at women. I could have sat on the train until my unlimited MetroCard ran out and not get a female to start up a conversation with me that way.

So I homed in on the first unaccompanied girl I saw.

Meghan, 24, was a pretty blonde on her way home to Greenpoint. She was slightly surprised when I just plopped down next to her and started chatting. The fashion designer laughed and smiled a lot, but was leery about giving her phone number to a random guy on the subway, something she says she never does.

She took my business card anyway, and “promised” to call me.

As we hurtled away from Manhattan, I spotted Kioveny, a stunning brunette on her way home from La Guardia College.

I was glad when she said she was 18, but sad when she said she was married. I guess the huge ring should have been a clue.

Heather, a cute 25-year-old from Williamsburg sporting jet black hair with a matching furry jacket, was the first girl who said she’d give me her e-mail address.

On the other hand, my beautiful photographer cohort, Lizzy Sullivan, was getting looks and got hit on by an older gentleman whose best line was pointing at her furry boots and saying, “Are you from Alaska? I’m going to Alaska next month.”

The real lesson I learned from my experience is that chatting up a beautiful stranger on the train really makes the time, and the stations, fly by.